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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206386">rotten work</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynousmikewheeler/pseuds/androgynousmikewheeler'>androgynousmikewheeler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Child Neglect, Don’t Let the Tags Fool You; This is Very Soft, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:36:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206386</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynousmikewheeler/pseuds/androgynousmikewheeler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike eases open the door to Bill’s bathroom, knuckles tapping lightly against the wood. Bill huddles in the bathtub, fully clothed and rocking slightly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>rotten work</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prettything_uglylie/gifts">Prettything_uglylie</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>yes, the title is an oresteia reference. yes, this is just me being painfully soft. I have done this all for you, Kit (and also for me, but ignore that).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mike eases open the door to Bill’s bathroom, knuckles tapping lightly against the wood. Bill huddles in the bathtub, fully clothed and rocking slightly. He mutters under his breath, stuttering and repeating as his face turns red. Mike’s lips twist into a concerned frown.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.</p>
<p>Bill hums in acknowledgement without looking up and returns to his muttering.</p>
<p>“Can I come in?” Mike asks. Bill shoots him a panicked look, tears drying in his eyelashes and cheeks still blotchy. “We don’t have to talk. You can just nod or shake your head.”</p>
<p>Bill takes a long, shaky breath and nods violently.</p>
<p>“Okay. Thank you. I’m just gonna sit here,” Mike gestures at the toilet, “if that’s okay.”</p>
<p>“Th-th-th-th,” Bill lets out a huff of frustration, “th-th-th,” his face screws up in concentration, jaw tensing as he tries to spit the word out, “th-th-that’s good.” He smiles, victorious but empty. “Good. Good, good, good, good, good, good, good.”</p>
<p>Mike shoots him a reassuring smile and sits down. He just watches Bill for a few minutes, as his rocking slows and his muttering quiets. He breathes, long and hard, almost gasping for air.</p>
<p>Eventually he looks up at Mike, eyes pleading for something he can’t say.</p>
<p>“Can I give you a back rub?”</p>
<p>Bill leans forward so his back is more accessible and nods. Mike kneels by the side of the tub and stretches his calloused hands across the flannel covering Bill’s shoulder blades. He rubs in slow, gentle circles, working the tension out of his back.</p>
<p>“Can you try to relax your shoulders, love?” He winces at letting the term of affection slip, but Bill seems too out of it to notice.</p>
<p>Bill sighs and lets his shoulders drop from their places around his ears. Mike rewards him with a ruffle of his hair before squeezing the stiff muscles of his neck. Bill groans.</p>
<p>“Did that hurt?”</p>
<p>Bill shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’m just s-sore.”</p>
<p>Mike’s hands resume their massaging, movements slightly more restrained. “Do you want to sit somewhere more comfortable?”</p>
<p>Bill’s head swings from side to side.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Mike says, “we can stay in here.”</p>
<p>His hands move to the back of Bill’s neck, fingertips tracing circles on the freckled skin. Bill’s breath slows, a little more even and a little less desperate. He takes one of Mike’s hands in his own and presses a kiss to the dark plane of his wrist. A silent, <em>thank you.</em></p>
<p>Mike squeezes Bill’s hand and kisses the nape of his neck. A silent, <em>I love you.</em> If only he knew how to say it out loud.</p>
<p>Bill’s grip releases and his hands fall back around his knees. Mike returns his attention to the knots and kinks in Bill’s shoulders, working them out with care. Bill sighs into his touch.</p>
<p>As Mike’s fingers press against the curve of Bill’s spine, he finally begins to talk. “Eddie called. I was s-so happy to hear from him. His mom was really giv-v-ving him our messages like she s-said. But he—“ Bill trails off, head sinking between his knees. He scratches at the holes worn into his jeans. “He s-said I had the wrong number, because he didn’t know any Bill, and would I p-please st-st-st-st-“ he growls in frustration, face turning red, “st-st-stop calling.”</p>
<p>Mike sighs and wraps his arms around Bill, who leans into the touch. He nuzzles against Mike’s bicep, the soft hair tickling his nose.</p>
<p>His voice is wet and broken when he says, “He was my f-first f-f-friend, Mikey.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Mike says.</p>
<p>A silent sob escapes his chest. “I don’t want to lose any more f-friends. I’m so tired of los-sing people.”</p>
<p>“You have me.”</p>
<p>Bill turns to look up at him, eyes big and red. “For how long?”</p>
<p>Mike holds his gaze as he sighs deeply. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”</p>
<p>A tear tracks down Bill’s cheek and Mike wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. “Tonight? I don’t want to s-sleep alone.”</p>
<p>He smiles. “Yeah, I’ll be here tonight. Right next to you, okay?” Bill nods. “Is it time for bed?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Bill whispers.</p>
<p>Mike stands and helps him out of the tub, both their knees a little wobbly. Bill sniffles as a strong arm rests under his ribs, holding him up as they hobble into his bedroom. Mike eases him onto the bed, sheets askew, and kisses the top of his head.</p>
<p>“Can I make you some tea? Some chamomile might help you sleep.”</p>
<p>Bill stares at his knuckles for a moment before looking up through his bangs into Mike’s brown eyes. “With honey?”</p>
<p>Mike smiles, big and toothy. “Lots. I’ll be back in a few, okay? Get comfortable.”</p>
<p>Bill burrows into his blankets with a soft hum as Mike heads down to the kitchen.</p>
<p>The kitchen is pristine, with a vaulted ceiling and snowy cabinets. It is not a place he feels invited. As he fills the kettle, his eyes slip shut for a moment, finally letting his own exhaustion hit him, shoulders sagging. He puts the full pot on the stove and tinkers through the unfamiliar pantry, searching for the honey and tea bags. The tea is easy enough to find, on a shelf at eye-level, but the honey proves more evasive. He’s peering at a shelf above his head when a voice comes from behind him.</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” A man says.</p>
<p>Mike startles and whips around to see the towering figure of Bill’s father, whose face quickly morphs from confusion to apathy.</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re back. Eddie, right?”</p>
<p>Mike blinks. “Mike. Eddie left eight months ago. Bill’s been... kind of upset about it.”</p>
<p>Zack Denbrough shrugs. “Hmm. He didn’t tell me.”</p>
<p>Mike’s nostrils flare. “Really? He said he had.”</p>
<p>His father hums. “He can be a bit ditzy. I’m sure he just got confused.”</p>
<p>Mike glares at him. “I’m sure.” He plasters on a wide smile, with no trace of its usual charm or joy. “Where’s the honey?”</p>
<p>“Bottom shelf, by the sugar.” He points and wanders out of the room.</p>
<p>Mike flips off his retreating form and grabs the honey. He pours a generous amount into Bill’s favorite mug, bearing the Halloween cover art. He drops a tea bag in, before grabbing another mug, one of several plain white, for himself. He leans against the granite counter, rubbing his eyes, breath long and slow. The grandfather clock chimes nine as the kettle starts to whistle. He turns off the gas and pours the boiling water, steam curling around his face. The soft scent of chamomile mixes in as the water hits the tea bag, and he inhales deeply. He stirs with the classic silver spoons of a long dead relative and takes the cups upstairs.</p>
<p>As he approaches the door to Bill’s room, he hears David Bowie echoing softly around the cavernous space. He bumps the door open with his hip and smiles as Bill comes into view, buried in blankets, head nodding to the beat.</p>
<p>“If it were anyone but you,” Mike says, as Bill startles and turns towards him, “I’d say that Bowie’s probably not great for sleeping. Your sleep rituals are a mystery, though, so I’ll leave it. Tea’s ready.”</p>
<p>Bill chuckles dryly and sits up, flannel rustling against the sheets. He reaches for his mug and mutters, “Thanks.” He breathes in the steam and for a moment, the stress and the pain in his face fade away. Eyes closed to the dim light, hands clasped around the ceramic heat, he’s peaceful. Mike blinks down at him, memorizing the way the street light dyes his skin, and loves him more than anything.</p>
<p>And then the cup burns Bill’s fingertips, and he jerks his eyes open and scuttles his grip to somewhere cooler, and the stress in his face returns. He hisses and blows across the surface of the pale tea.</p>
<p>Mike sits in his desk chair and fidgets with his own cup. “I ran into your dad. He seemed okay with me staying the night.”</p>
<p>Bill bites at his lip. “‘S-seemed okay’ or ‘couldn’t be bothered to give a shit?’”</p>
<p>Mike grimaces. “The latter.”</p>
<p>Bill shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Sh-shocking.” He pats the mattress beside him, which stretches far wider than any teenage boy requires. “S-sit with me.”</p>
<p>Mike smiles and makes his way around the bed, trying to hide the way his heart speeds up at the suggestion. No matter how many times he sleeps across from Bill, it still feels exhilarating and forbidden. Just how he imagines kissing him would feel. He sits down, mattress sagging, and crosses his legs, hands wrapped around his tea.</p>
<p>They sit like that for several minutes, big room silent except for the wind whipping around the windows, sipping their tea and watching the wind batter the trees.</p>
<p>Bill sighs. “Do you want to...” He trails off and takes another sip.</p>
<p>Mike’s heart races for a moment. “Do I want to what?”</p>
<p>“I f-finished a new s-story. Th-the ending’s not very good, but do you want to read it?”</p>
<p>Mike’s grin stretches at his cheeks. “I’d love to. Is this the one with the zombies?”</p>
<p>Bill shakes his head. “It’s a p-pandemic. Disease, ex-s-stinction, you know me.”</p>
<p>Mike fixes him with a gaze that Bill will dream of long after he’s forgotten Derry. “I do,” he says, clear and heartfelt, and he does.</p>
<p>Bill breaks the eye contact with an uncertain smile, drinks the last of his now lukewarm chamomile, and sets the mug down on his night table. He leans out of the bed to pull out a drawer and rummage through it, eventually sitting up, a doodle-covered folder full of lined papers clutched in hand. He hands it to Mike, who opens it with barely restrained glee.</p>
<p>“The Aftermath,” he reads, “by William Denbrough.” His fingers trace the name, etched in sloppy handwriting.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to read it out loud,” Bill says.</p>
<p>“Can I? I like the way your stories sound.”</p>
<p>Bill nods and nestles into his pile of pillows, watching Mike with his intent blue eyes and yawning. “Get in. It’s f-f-freezing.”</p>
<p>The hollow yearning in Mike’s chest screams, but he does as Bill asks and stretches his legs out between the sheets. He looks at Bill, shivering even after the hot drink, and sighs. “Come on, I know you’re cold. Snuggle up.” Ever the masochist, Mike, especially for his friends.</p>
<p>Bill blushes and crawls across the bed, wrapping his bony angles around Mike’s musculature, the cold of his fingers and toes seeping through the fabric between them. He rests his cheek on Mike’s chest, and Mike’s sure he can hear the frantic beating of his heart, but he says nothing.</p>
<p>He loops his arm over his shaking shoulders and holds the first page in front of him. “This morning rose much like the last 1,165 had; with a sickening quiet and the stench of decay.”</p>
<p>Bill’s jaw rubs against Mike’s chest as he worries his lip. “I don’t know how I f-feel about that opening line.”</p>
<p>“I like it. It sets the tone, I think.”</p>
<p>“Is it too on the nose, th-though?”</p>
<p>Mike strokes his hair. “You can edit in the morning, Bill.”</p>
<p>“It’s not even late,” he slurs, but his eyelids droop and he fights to suppress another yawn.</p>
<p>Mike chuckles. “Tough.”</p>
<p>Bill flicks half-heartedly at his chest, but Mike just starts reading again. As he flips through the pages, voice quiet and rhythmic, Bill’s eyes flicker shut and his breathing turns long and regular. As he reads the last line, an unfortunate ending for all involved, his own eyelids are heavy.</p>
<p>“Good night, Big Bill,” he whispers as he stows the papers on the table and switches off the light. Bill doesn’t respond. He breathes in the comfortable silence, memorizes every place Bill’s body touches his, and feels his consciousness slipping away. “I love you,” he mutters, and only the room hears.</p>
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